


Performance Art

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Daredevil kinkmeme:</p><p>"Fisk/Vanessa/Wesley - voyeurism.  Performance art: Wilson likes to watch, but he's too shy to ask for it, at least at first. Vanessa draws it out of him: he wants to watch Wesley eat her out, long and slow.  Vanessa is totally into it, loving the idea of being on display. And Wesley, well, Wesley is completely at his master's command.  (Optional headcanon: Wesley doesn't like to be touched, but takes pride in a job well done.)" -- (http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=149461#cmt149461)</p><p>This fits the majority of those requirements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Art

**Author's Note:**

> No beta; grammar/spelling errors, if pointed out, will be corrected ASAP. Additional concrit: pm me.
> 
> Prompter!Anon, if you want me to tag you here as the giftee, just let me know.

This is how Wilson looks at her: awed, hesitant, disbelieving of her every kindness, startled when he makes her smile or laugh. Not like art, not on a pedestal, no.  
  
Like a man in a desert realizing that the oasis isn't a mirage. Like Sisyphus looking  _downhill._  Like a dog rescued from a fighting ring, expecting violence, rejection, starvation - constantly bewildered when he doesn't encounter it, when every gesture is a kindness. Not that she's untouchable, but that he doesn't deserve to be the one to touch her.  He's so wrapped up in fighting his darkness that he doesn't see his own humanity, or that his shadows have shaped his ambition into something greater and more admirable than well-meaning naiveté.  

Chiseling marble requires a willingness to do violence, requires vision, an iron will, and the precise application of force.  Vanessa wants nothing more than to watch him create a masterpiece from the rubble of Hell's Kitchen. She feels as privileged to watch him work as he seems to feel humbled at her wanting to be at his side.

She can tell she's not the only one.  
  
This is how Wesley looks at Fisk: respectful, obedient, admiring. Not just like a well-paid assistant. Like a lieutenant, loyal unto death towards a general embodying his most treasured principles. Like an  _acolyte,_  like an apostle, like a true believer.  
  
He thinks no one sees, but Vanessa's sold art. She knows how to read a patron, how to tease meaning out of small gestures and abstractions. So she sees the gruff fondness in Wilson's regard for Wesley, too. The banked warmth, his reliance on Wesley's judgement and silent presence, the possessiveness.  
  
It would be so petty to begrudge it - but that doesn't mean she's not  _curious._  
  
***  
  
"The car will be waiting whenever you're ready," Wesley tells them.  
  
"Thank you," Fisk says, and Wesley leaves. Vanessa takes a long sip of from her tumbler of grapefruit juice, considering.  
  
"Does Wesley have a woman in his life?" she asks, keeping her voice light and casual; she would usually add _'or a man,'_ but she's starting to suspect she already knows _that_ answer.  
  
"...no," Wilson responds, shifting in his seat and darting a sidelong glance at her. "Why?"  
  
"He's very handsome, that's all." She shrugs easily and takes a delicate bite of her toast before continuing, "I'd hate to think he's lonely."  
  
Wilson is silent for several moments. He toys a little with his coffee spoon, turning it around and around. "I don't think he is," he says finally.  
  
Vanessa reaches out, pulls the utensil from his grasp and stills his fidgeting beneath a gentle press of her hand. His eyes dart up to meet hers, startled. "He's very devoted to you," she says, and his gaze skitters away again.  
  
"I know," he says. And if a man like Wilson Fisk could blush, she's certain he would be now.  
  
"Have you ever--" she asks, and trails off, surprised by the flash of defiance in the look Wilson gives her, the sudden determined set of his jaw.  
  
"If you must know, yes," he answers her unfinished question. "We-- on rare occasion, we have--" His voice starts, stops. He might refuse the shame he thinks she expects of him, but his vocabulary has always been outstripped by the breadth of his emotions.  
  
"Hmmm," she says in a pleased murmur, smiling warmly. "It's all right, love. I don't mind."  
  
"You're not..." he searches for the right word. Disgusted, perhaps? Jealous? "...upset?" he finishes.  
  
Vanessa shakes her head. She thinks about it, letting her mind prod the edges of her suspicions now that she knows they're real. "Have you been with him since we started seeing each other?" she asks.  
  
"No," Wilson replies with vehemence, his hand tightening around hers. "Believe me, I would  _never--_ "  
  
"I believe you." She squeezes back. Without quite meaning to, she has a sudden vivid image of them together, clutching at each other in the back of the car one night, Wilson's large hand sliding along the fine seams of Wesley's trousers.   
  
Her breath catches in a faint hiss between her teeth, and Wilson looks concerned. "Are you sure you're not upset?" he asks, and she rises out of her seat to come around the table, perching atop his knees, wrapping one arm around his shoulders.  
  
"Absolutely," Vanessa tells him. She presses a kiss to his cheek, tucks her face close to his. "In fact," she adds, dropping her voice to a murmur at his ear, "you should feel free to tell me about it, if you like."  
  
"--what?" he asks, and she takes his hand in hers again, guiding it under her robe. She can feel his chest rumble against hers when his fingers brush the slick heat between her legs.  
  
" _Tell me,_ " she whispers, and he takes a deep, unsteady breath before he starts to speak, his touch growing sure and firm.

***

This is how Wesley looks at Vanessa: courteous, deferential, resigned. As if he's always known that there was a place at Wilson's side that needed filling, and that he appreciates that she's not simply  _able_  to do so, but enthusiastic and well-suited for the role, as well. He treats her as if he's occasionally surprised at liking her himself.  
  
And he  _does_  like her; she knows men well enough to see that. He wouldn't have come for her in Wilson's hour of need if he hadn't. There wouldn't be the glint of admiration in his eyes when she'd suggested the press conference, acknowledging the counter-intuitive efficacy of the tactic with a smile as they'd surveyed all the ensuing news reports and the polling numbers.  
  
Wesley willingly volunteers to escort her to her apartment to help her retrieve the last of her essentials, after Wilson suggests that she stay in the penthouse for her own protection.   
  
"I'm away so often," Wilson says, "I won't impose on your time or privacy. Besides, someone might as well be there to appreciate it." A gift, instead of a gilded cage; she's free to accept or decline, free to move about as she chooses on whatever terms she sets. He simply wants to make his resources available to her, if she's taking on the risks of proximity to him.   
  
She accepts, of course. And Wesley offers to help.  
  
_Well._  Wesley offers to manage the team of movers that follow them, at least, and to keep her company while she makes the required arrangements. She doesn't expect to see him lifting boxes.  
  
"Most of this should go to storage," she tells him. "Although do you think Wilson will mind me keeping some of my collection?" She frowns at the small bronze on her bookshelf, the first original piece she'd ever been able to buy with her own money.  
  
"I don't think there's much you could do that he would mind," Wesley says absent-mindedly, perusing the books on another shelf. Almost as soon as he says it, he looks somewhat abashed. "Ma'am," he adds.  
  
"Oh, please don't stand on formality, James," she says. "After all, you were here first."  
  
Wilson Fisk doesn't blush. To her delight, Wesley does, very faintly about the ears.  
  
***  
  
"Wesley would do anything for you," she whispers to Wilson in the dark that night. They're still entwined from their earlier lovemaking, sweat cooling on their skin. With her head on his chest, she hears his heart rate pick up, his lungs stutter for half a second.  
  
"I know," he says. "Sometimes... sometimes I worry about that."  
  
"He knew the risks when he made his choice," she tells him. "Just as I did. Don't belittle our intelligence by thinking otherwise."  
  
"I-" Wilson tries, "I don't mean to-"  
  
"I know, love," she says, stroking her hand down his side, soothingly. "Just remember that you wouldn't have wanted us if we weren't strong enough in our own rights to refuse."  
  
"True," he admits.  
  
"And remember," she says, shifting to prop herself up on one elbow, her thigh sliding over his. "There are  _advantages_  to companionship."  
  
"Oh?" he says. She can see his smile in the dark as his hand comes up to smooth over the line of her leg, her flank.  
  
"You're a man of vision," she replies. "I'm sure you can come up with a few ideas..."  
  
In a deft motion, he rolls them both over, pinning her beneath him. She cradles his hips between her knees, wraps her arms around his shoulders, enjoying his solidity, his warmth. "More than a few," he says, voice low and intent.  
  
"I'm all ears," she says, rolling her pelvis against him, feeling him hardening again at her hip. "I might even be able to help you--" The rest of her sentence is lost in his kiss.  
  
***  
  
Wesley always checks in on them after dinner, before going... wherever it is he goes at night. Vanessa suspects he has an apartment of his own in the building, but she's never inquired.  
  
"...unless there's anything else," Wesley says tonight as he so often does, about to excuse himself. Beneath the table, Vanessa presses her leg against Wilson's knee, an insistent reminder. Wilson looks faintly alarmed, and she lifts an eyebrow in challenge.  
  
He clears his throat, standing. "Actually, Wesley, we were hoping you'd stay."  
  
"Of course," Wesley responds. "What do you need?"  
  
Vanessa stands then, too, tucking her hand into the crook of Wilson's arm, leaning against him, trying to project welcoming intimacy rather than possessiveness. "We'd like you to join us," she says. "If you don't mind."  
  
"Wh-" Wesley starts, then stops. She can see when the full impact of their meaning sinks in; he blinks a couple of times, almost lost behind the reflection of light on his glasses. "I don't-"  
  
"This is a request, not a requirement," Wilson says, voice gentle and halting. "Just as it has always been."  
  
Wesley's questioning gaze turns to Vanessa. "You  _were_  here first," she says again with a sly quirk of her lips, teasing rather than unkind. "Besides, I think we've established that we work quite well in concert, don't you think?"  
  
"I--" Wesley says, and then ducks his head. His ears are pink again. "I don't know. What."  
  
Vanessa takes pity on the poor man. "Darling," she says to Wilson. "Will you go on ahead, give us a minute?"  
  
Wary, visibly fretting, Wilson nods anyway, kissing her briefly before heading down the hallway.  
  
"Sit down, Wesley," she tells the other man, crossing to the other end of the table and leaning back against it, nudging a chair towards him with one foot.  
  
"I'd rather stand, actually."  
  
She smiles, pleased; at his puzzled frown, she says, "That's good, you saying no. You don't treat me as an extension of him. You've always treated me as an equal."  
  
"You've earned his respect and mine," Wesley replies.  
  
"But not your blind devotion," she points out. "Which I wouldn't want anyway. I do want us to understand one another. So when I tell you that I want you in our bed -- willingly or not at all -- I want you to understand that I consider you  _my_  equal, that you have earned my respect and my regard, and that, most of all, I'm not asking this lightly. I wouldn't endanger everything that you've both worked on for so long for the sake of a mere momentary diversion. I know that that's not what this is to you, and whether you believe me or not, that's not what it is for him. Or for me."  
  
Towards the end of her little speech, Wesley removes his glasses, pulls out his pocket square, and painstakingly polishes the lenses, first one, then the other. When she falls silent, he puts them on again and tucks the scrap of silk into his trouser pocket. "Are you finished?" he asks.  
  
"I suppose," she grants. He crosses the distance between them, crowding obliquely into her space just enough that she can feel his body heat all along one side but not close enough that they're touching.  
  
"I can't help but notice," he murmurs, as if he's whispering urgent news to her in a crowded room, "that at no point did you mention the essential factor of _attraction_."  
  
"Essential, certainly," she says, tipping her head to the side so that her hair falls away from her neck, letting him see the long line of her throat running down to her collarbones, the shadowed valley between her breasts. He inhales with a subtle sharpness, and she meets his gaze sidelong through her lashes. "But not an obstacle, I don't think." She lifts one hand, skimming fingers up the line of his tie before gripping it tightly just under the knot, pulling him in the rest of the way. He yields  _beautifully,_  mouth parting against hers so that she can flick her tongue against the soft swell of his lower lip and then deeper. He cups his palm against her jaw and her skin hums at his proximity, their bodies only barely brushing.  
  
He breaks the kiss, and she sees she's left a smudge on his glasses. He doesn't seem to notice, or care, his eyes dark and keen, lingering on her mouth.  
  
"What did I tell you?" she says. "Not an obstacle."  
  
His lips curl in a smile she's never seen before, slow and almost predatory. "Then I suppose we shouldn't keep him waiting," he suggests.  
  
"I think you're right," she agrees.  
  
***  
  
It had taken some work for Wilson to admit to wanting this, any of it. He's always been vigilant about pointless avarice, and having more than one lover - in the same bed, even - is surely a senseless indulgence. "Has it occurred to you," Wesley informs him dryly, draping his coat over the valet stand and tugging at the knot on his tie, "that you're not the only one benefiting here?" He casts an appreciative eye towards the skin being revealed as Wilson carefully unzips Vanessa's dress and pushes it down her shoulders.  
  
"Of course not," she retorts, teasingly, "In fact, I think we should give him what he  _really_  wants."  
  
"What's that?" Wesley asks. Behind her, Wilson pauses in trailing a line of kisses across her back. She pulls her arms all the way out of her dress and lets it slither down over her hips, showing off a little for them both as she steps out of the puddle of fabric around her ankles, clad only in garter and stockings and bra.  
  
She crosses the room to help Wesley with his shirt buttons, throwing a smile over her shoulder at Wilson when she hears him moving to follow. "Oh no, darling, stay over there and get comfortable." She turns back to Wesley, hearing the creak of bedsprings as Wilson settles onto the mattress. "He wants to watch," she whispers, barely louder than a breath.  
  
Wesley's eyebrows lift, and he looks over her shoulder at Wilson. She's pretty sure she knows what he sees: Wilson sitting up against the headboard, giving Wesley a curt nod as his hands flex over his knees, too conflicted and reluctant to admit his desires aloud.  
  
"Then let's oblige him," Wesley replies, and Vanessa laughs.   _I should probably start thinking of him as James,_ she thinks, as he bends to kiss her again.

  
***  
  
"Tell me," she says, reaching over for Wilson's hand, "Tell  _us._ "  
  
"Beautiful," he manages, and she has to agree, at least in part. James looks good on his knees at the side of the bed, his sharp eyes glancing up at her every so often, hair mussed and brow furrowed as his mouth works against her cunt.   
  
Wilson has that look on his face, the one he gets when he's watching her savor a good wine or uncrate a new painting. It's like distant, wistful longing mixed with incredulous fondness. It makes her shiver, consumed by the intensity of his regard and the fervent ardor she feels in return.  
  
James brings her close again and again, backing off each time until her breath comes in hiccuping gasps between pleas, until he finally takes pity on her -- or responds to some wordless signal of Wilson's, she's too far gone to notice. He crooks his fingers inside her, dragging his tongue against her clit at a maddening pace. Overwhelmed, she arches, gripping Wilson's hand like a lifeline as she cries out, James humming against her with smug pleasure.   
  
"Beautiful," Wilson says again.  
  
"Unquestionably," James agrees, straightening up, giving her a few last intimate caresses before withdrawing his hand. He's not just looking at her when he says it, and it sends another tremor down her spine.  
  
"Was it everything you wanted?" she asks Wilson when she finds her voice. He leans over and gives her a long, lingering kiss.  
  
"It's a start," he replies, smiling, then holds out a hand to help James onto the bed.  
  
***  
  
In the morning, Vanessa finds that she's not the first to wake. She slips from Wilson's gentle embrace and wraps her robe around her, padding down the hall, _hoping_...  
  
When she spots James at the window, it's a relief. "I was afraid you'd gone," she says quietly.  
  
He turns to look at her as she crosses the room to stand beside him. "Oh, I don't plan to go anywhere," he replies.  
  
"Good," she says, tucking herself close to his side. His hand comes up to rest on her hip, warm and steady.  
  
In companionable silence, they watch the sky brighten over the city while they wait for Wilson to wake and the day to begin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
\-- end --


End file.
